


Painful Recall

by castielslovesong



Series: Tumblr drabbles [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Blades, Angel Castiel, Castiel in the Bunker, Dean Being an Asshole, Demon Dean, First Blade, Hell, Hurt Castiel, Men of Letters Bunker, Not really that destiel, Sad Castiel, Season/Series 10 Speculation, Snarky Castiel, Sulfur, Torture, i dont know how to tag this, its implied i guess idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2038482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielslovesong/pseuds/castielslovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I just have this headcanon that when Cas found Dean in Hell, he didn't want to be saved and was already part demon. Set after Cas finds out Dean's dead, the demon and the angel have a little chat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painful Recall

**Author's Note:**

> Indulgence from my tumblr.
> 
> Let me know what you think umu

Cas finds his way back to the Bunker in a daze. There's an ache in the place where his heart would beat, were he human, and it is due to more than insufficient grace.

_He's dead too_

He shivers, from the cold, from the words, he doesn't know. Nothing feels real, it's all too fresh, too new, an open wound on top of frayed nerves. Silently, he lets himself into the Bunker. 

A wave of  _something_  hits him and it takes him a few moments to identify the molecules of smell.

There's a concerning percentage of alcohol, brandy or whiskey, hanging in the air. But more, as well, the atmosphere is heavy and dark - like stomping on a pile of ash. 

_Sulfur_

It can't be. He is instantly on guard, head sweeping and eyes scanning for Sam. The room looks wrecked. The chairs are over turned, pages strewn across the wooden floor and smashed glass with old liquid stains litter the ground.

"Sam?" He calls out, angel blade slipping reassuringly into his palm.

His nose wrinkles. There it is again; there is no way a demon could get through the numerous sigils and protection spells that cover the entire building.

"Sammy, he's... Well. He's  _gone_."

Spinning with a speed that surprises himself, he turns to face the figure in the doorway. His cry of relief chokes in his throat, coming out in an aborted, pained sound.

Dean is alive. 

No, Castiel. No. This is not Dean. This is the same twisted figure you met in Hell. A soul as black as the walls of Damnation, true form disfigured horns and bone jutting out in all angles. The pieces of his grace shine in the demons chest, Dean's chest, though are consumed by an infinite plume of smoke.

How could they have come full circle?

Perhaps Chuck was right. Maybe Lucifer was right too. It is conceivably possible that his Father was in fact teaching him a lesson, one of destiny and one of fate. He blinks, finally, eyes refreshing only to see the same charred and billowing form, cocky grin, knife resting loosely in his palm.

He swallows. 

"Where is Sam?" As much as this pains him (he has seen this sight before and he can truly say that once was enough) his friend must now be his priority. He can't imagine what Dean had implied with him being 'gone'. Or possibly he can imagine one too many scenarios. 

Sighing, Dean pushes off the wall and strides closer. His gait is wrong, the way he holds himself is only slightly different but the air around them crackles with the tension. Lightning meeting fire, thunder crashing against waves, it's palpable in the few metres between them. He has to suppress the urge to kill him in the name of his Father.

He's not just a demon, no.

Dean has become the new Cain.

"You always were so," Dean pauses, gesturing vaguely with his knife up and down Castiel's body, " _protective._ " 

Protective is what he settles for?

The cocky laugh makes Castiel's attention draw back to him, those green eyes flicking black. He's mocking him, Cas belatedly realises; the head tilt and confusion. What a bitter creature he had met in Hell.

"Yeah you clueless excuse of an angel. Of him... Of  _me_!" He's laughing again, croaking with a scratch of demonic slur at the end of his tone. 

"Tell me where Sam is." Cas ignores his amusement.

The laughter abruptly stops.

"You're no fun anymore Cas, remember back in Hell..." His smile is cruelly bitter. "We had a riot, you and me."

_His Garrison falls back behind him. Not Castiel, Angel of Thursday. He meets the bowels of Hell, Alastair's personal torture chambers with singed wings and broken fury. Many have died to get them, him, this far... He will be the one to raise the Righteous Man from perdition - he only hopes he isn't too late._

_Bursting through the doors, he rips the demons with their whips apart, eyes searching for his charge. He growls in his throat when he sees him._

_40 years. 40 years it took him to get here and he has failed._

_The soul that was once pure, the Michael Sword, is tainted with inky black. It doesn't acknowledge his presence even, not until Castiel's angel blade is slicing the pitiful demon beside him._

_"You're a long way from home, feather head."_

_And he lunges at him. Black coiling in the bright light of his form, he's changing, turning, falling. A human soul should not be tested in this way. Castiel fights back with a vengeance, aiming to disarm the creature and leave._

_Dean Winchester. He was raised to be a soldier and his demonic form shows it now, along with Alastair's sick hand, Castiel has difficulty in not just killing him. However, he has orders to follow._

_Easily dodging another swipe of a blade, he risks flight, torching his aching wings further. Then he grips the darkness, holding onto its true form where on human anatomy would be a human bicep and he flies. He soars harder, faster, flapping furiously as he climbs out of Hell, cradling the damaged soul beneath his palm._

_Only the soul gripped back._

"So you do remember!" He crows, "Good times, right?"

Cas shifts. Twirling his blade in his hand, he takes a step towards Dean.

"If you don't tell me where Sam is, I will remind you of the power of Heaven."

"Pfft, that's big talk for a dwindling flame like you, sweetheart, though I appreciate the threat of torture. I love it when you get all commanding." He wiggles his eyebrows. Groaning exasperatedly when Cas doesn't budge, holding his expression stern in order not to break down in the truth of his own predicament, Dean sways on his feet.

The hand holding the knife twitches.

"Stop being such a drama queen, he left the Bunker in the Impala." He rolls his eyes.

Cas relaxes a small amount. On the other hand, he has no reason to trust Dean's word anymore, he squints at him.

"You..." He licks his lips, "You let him take the Impala?"

"Well duh, what the Hell am I going to do with a car when I can do this?"

Instantly, Dean disappears from in front of him; something warm slides past his palm and his blade is gone.

Reappearing, Dean shakes his own and newly stolen blade, grinning manically. 

Cas slumps, the weight of loss and gain and recalling such things so deeply buried about Dean Winchester coming down on him all at once.

"Who did this to you?" He asks, barely a rumble in the silence. Pain radiates through him as he locks his gaze with sinful black, not forest green.

"Who did this to me!? You of all people know that this  _is_  what I was always meant to be."

"No." He states, no longer completely defeated but still devastated, "No, you were meant to be a vessel of Heaven, not a misguided configuration of Hell."

He chuckles, the familiar self depreciation lost from his tone. Instead, he sounds smug, happy. "Thanks Cas, but now I belong to a much better club. Me and Crowley ar-"

"Crowley?" Cas can feel his eyes sparking as his grace rises inside him. The cold warrior runs through his hollow veins, clenching his fists to an almost crushing pressure.

For the first time in their entire conversation, Dean falters and looks away.

"You, you trusted Crowley? Over your own  _brother_ , over  _me_?" He no longer cares that he's pushed right into the demon's personal space, the sound of the weapons clatter on the floor. Dean lets himself be pushed back by the half angel's presence, remorse flicking his eyes to green when he hears the underlying betrayal in Cas' tone.

How many times must they dance to this tune?

"Answer me Dean!" Cas has his hands twisted in the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up as he holds him against the wall. They both know that Dean could push him off, could end him oh so easily...

He shoves Cas away.

This isn't like being human. He isn't human and he won't be dicked around by angels anymore.

"I went to Crowley, you wanna know why?" He shoves at Cas' chest, causing him to stumble back. Green fades to black. "Because whilst Sammy was busy hating me for saving his life, and you were clearing up your god damn mess again,  _I_  was trying to stop Abaddon. You all left me and you know what? I DON'T REGRET A DAMN THING."

He's shouting now, screaming, crowding Cas back until he hits the wall on the other side of the room. He thrusts a hand out and the first blade comes to him immediately. Cas scowls but doesn't resist when Dean holds its jagged edge to his throat. It will kill him - for good - the problem is he might accept it, he's tired and he doesn't know how to fix this.

He never knows how to fix anything. He's an angel, not cut out for the complexity of friendship and choice. 

Chest heaving, Dean keeps the blade in place, searching Cas' eyes. 

"And," his voice breaks, eyes flicking to Cas' lips, "I became the monster I was meant to be..." He turns away from Cas, ducking his head in a way that's human not demon. "So just go. There's no place for you here now." 

Castiel moves slowly, retreating and promising himself that he will get Dean out of this, if it's the last thing he does. Which, given the state of his grace, it just might be.

The air outside the Bunker is cold. Angels were never supposed to feel. They were built above the privilege and burden of emotion.

He wipes the lone tear from his cheek, telling himself he made the right choices.


End file.
